The familiar clutter in Falazar’s sanctum had been pushed aside to reveal a circle of shimmering, silver-inlaid runes. In a wide obsidian bowl in its center simmered a viscous liquid, dark as a moonless night, its fumes coiling with the heady scent of dream-root and blood. Griswold stood sentinel by the door, a granite bastion against any intrusions.

  Falazar inhaled the potent alchemical brew, turning a lock deep within his soul. The world of stone and candlelight dissolved. The fragile spark of silver light of his consciousness detached from its mortal anchor and plunged downwards through strata of ethereal planes, and downwards still into the abyss. Into the Sea of Dead Stars.

  It was not a place, rather a state of being, a chaos of pure potential and lingering spiritual residue. He drifted, a lone thought in a hurricane of souls. Vast, bruised-purple landscapes of pure emotion pulsed around him. Crystalline structures of solidified logic hummed with a geometric madness, then shattered into cascades of weeping light. Strands of unformed intent coiled around him like serpents. This was the Umbral Depths, the dream-stuff of a million sleeping minds, the junkyard of forgotten gods.

  He had one anchor: the cold resonance of the Chain of Subjugation he clutched in the physical world. It was a dissonant note, a point of grasping gravity. A dark, viscous tendril of energy snaked from it, leading away into the swirling miasma.

  The thread led him towards a vast, pulsating nexus of shadow. As he drew closer, its psychic gravity pulled him in a vortex of subjugated wills, a million screaming silences all drawn into a cold flux. And at its heart, a mind lurked.

  A mind of immense power, a consciousness like a slumbering volcano… a dreaming mind. A Bound Sleeper, trapped, its arcane power siphoned into a focusing lens for a will far greater, far colder; a will as vast and indifferent as the void itself.

  And in the texture of the Sleeper’s magic ringed a familiar turn of arcane phrase, a specific, elegant way of bending reality that he had not encountered in two hundred years. A style that awakened a grief so ancient, so bound to the bedrock of Falazar’s soul. Lynneus?

  A blasphemy, a scream of agony. It couldn’t be. His mentor had perished, consumed in the final cataclysmic fires of the War of Solitude. A trick of the Entity, a memory twisted into a weapon. To torment him, to break his will. Yet the echo of his unique ethereal signature… it was there. He recoiled from the thought.

  He tore his focus away, seeking the other dissonances. Another thread, colder still, more rigid. He followed it to a nexus of souls chained to a conceptual space of stark order. A presence—a will that sought to flatten the chaos of the Umbral Depths into a perfect, silent, geometric grid. A Will-to-Order, utterly alien. The Silent Architect. Another predator in this dark sea with its own chilling agenda.

  A disciplined scent of sun-baked cruelty and sorcerous ambition from one direction. The sorrowful, water-logged dreams of an ancient race from another. The slumbering, earthy hum of the Jotunai, a defiant bass note almost lost in the overwhelming gloom…

  And then a ripple. Out of tune. Something that did not belong. It moved through this chaos with an effortless, insolent grace. It was not a presence he could define, but an impression: the sudden feeling of being watched by an amused presence. A glint of yellow eyes in a place that had never known light. The phantom scent of sun-warmed fur in a realm of absolute cold. A silent, cosmic chuckle that seemed to find the entire spectacle… quaint. He could not account for this player, and the sheer, whimsical wrongness of it was, in some ways, more unsettling than the overt malice of the other powers.

  A sharp probe lashed out from the Bound Sleeper’s nexus. He had been sensed. His silver spark was an unwelcome intrusion.

  The Sea of Dead Stars roiled awake. Nightmarish shapes coalesced from swirling despair – manifestations of his own deepest fears. The face of Lynneus, with hollow, accusing eyes, whispered, “You failed me. You failed them all.” Alkaer was ablaze, its towers crumbling to ash. The last flicker of light in the world waned, leaving only the indifferent void.

  He fought back, a blade of defiance cutting through the illusions. But he was vulnerable here, far from his physical form. The cold was seeping in, the soothing whispers of solitude promised an end to his struggle.

  He had to retreat. He had seen enough. Too much. And the most terrifying suspicion…

  With a final, desperate exertion of will, Falazar severed the connection and his soul snapped back, hurtling through layers of reality. He gasped, eyes flying open, the stench of the alchemical brew filling his senses. He was back in his tower, his body slick with a cold sweat, his heart hammering against his ribs. Griswold was at his side instantly, a waterskin ready.

  The Archmage drank deeply, his hands shaking. He had survived. But he had not returned with answers. He had returned with burdens.

  "The answers you seek, little sister," Jorn said to Sabine, "will not be found here."

  "But," added Narai, "there are still some of us, further north. The settlements of Stonefall, and beyond it, High Tor, on the very edge of the Scablands. They are larger, older. There are Earth-Shapers there, Mages, as you call them. And keepers of the lore. They may not know how to wield the chain you carry, but they may know of its making, recognize its song. If there is any hope of understanding your power, it is with them."

  Grumstone slammed his empty tankard down. "And the key!" he rasped, pointing a gnarled finger at Marta’s pouch. "The craft is dwarven. If there’s a lock, there was a smith. Stonebeard’s Rest is far from what it once was. But there are other holds. Ironwood Deep, two days’ ride northwest of here, nestled in the Dragon’s Tooth foothills. And further still, the Black Anvil Delving. My own kin, though I haven’t seen them in fifty years, since… " He sighed, "they are masters of mechanisms, of ancient wards. If any dwarf in these lands can shed light on such an artifact, it is them."

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  The fire in the great hearth dwindled over the course of the evening to a bed of glowing embers, casting a soft, ruddy light. The initial council dispersed, leaving one by one, the villagers and dwarves retreating to their own dwellings, leaving Ronigren to the quiet solitude of the vast hall, where his mind reeled with the night’s revelations.

  Sabine sat by her father’s side, her hand clasping his. Masillius’s breathing was deeper now, more regular, feverish heat receding under Myanaa’s ministrations. His eyes had lost the haunted vacancy of his awakening.

  Ronigren rose from the great table and walked over, his amphibian boots squelching on the stone floor. He knelt beside the stretcher and remembered Masillius’s words on the eve of the Woodhall siege, that simple, unexpected comfort from a man he barely knew. “Even the oldest oaks were once saplings, battered by storms. It’s the bending, not the breaking, that makes them strong.” Seeing the indomitable merchant so laid low, so fragile, a pressing need urged him to return that kindness, to offer what little strength he had left. "Master Vasi, welcome back to us. You gave us quite a scare."

  Masillius’s eyes focused on him. "Ronigren… Sir Knight…" he rasped, his voice weak. "The Fens… a most inhospitable place for a business trip." A ghost of a smile touched his pale lips. "And Sabine… she is…?"

  "She is right here, Father," Sabine beamed, squeezing his hand. "And she saved you, remember?" She said with a playful scowl.

  Masillius looked at his daughter, at the fierce love in her eyes, and emotions too profound for words lit his face. A single tear carved a path through the grime on his cheek. Ronigren placed a hand on the merchant’s shoulder, "Rest now, Masillius. You are safe. And we have need of your common sense, in these strange times."

  Ronigren rose, his gaze sweeping over the disparate members of his company. Two paths lay before them. North, to the Jotunai Mages of High Tor. Northwest, to the dwarven smiths of Ironwood Deep. Both held a promise, both were fraught with peril. He walked over to where Artholan and Ruthiel were hunched over the ancient foundation stones, examining faded runes. "Artholan. Ruthiel," Ronigren called, drawing them from their absorption. "Your knowledge is vital. We must speak." He then approached Sabine, still by her father’s side. "Sabine," he said softly. "Your father needs his rest. But we need you. Your connection to these artifacts, to this heritage… Your voice must be heard."

  He led them back to the great table at the head of the hall, alight with the glow of dying embers. "The Jotunai Mages of High Tor," Ronigren began, "or the dwarven smiths of Ironwood Deep. We have two paths, and likely, only the time and resources for one. We must choose, and choose wisely."

  Artholan, his notebook open, his stylus poised like a general’s baton, drove the first charge. "The path of logic is singular and direct, Sir Ronigren," he lectured. "It leads northwest, to Ironwood Deep. We are dealing with artifacts. Mechanisms. They possess quantifiable properties, resonant frequencies, and are bound by sophisticated laws. To understand a machine, one does not consult the ghost of its inventor; one consults the engineer who understands its gears and levers!"

  He fixed Ronigren with earnest condescension. "The Jotunai themselves sought a dwarven forge to repair the Chain of Command! The precedent is irrefutable. We require data, Sir Knight! Tangible, verifiable knowledge of how these things work. Chasing after so-called 'Jotunai Mages' in some northern wasteland, based on legends and the hope of some grand awakening in Mistress Sabine, is… speculative. Inefficient. It is the path of poets and mystics, not of serious practitioners seeking results."

  "Your desire for quantifiable data is understandable, Mage Artholan. But you seek to understand the lute string while ignoring the musician." Ruthiel retorted, and their gaze rested gently on Sabine, who sat straight and silent, absorbing their every word.

  "These artifacts," Ruthiel continued, "are not mere machines. They are conduits, amplifiers. The true source of the power we seek lies not within the metal or stone, but within the lineage of the Terra-Born. The dwarves may understand the forging of the chain, but only the Jotunai can understand the nature of the will it is meant to channel. Sabine's power awakens, wild and untutored. Taking her to a forge is like taking a fledgling eagle to a carpenter to study the mechanics of its wings; it misses the essential truth of flight."

  Artholan grimaced, but Ruthiel’s rebuke was not over. "She needs to be among her kin, however few remain. She needs to hear their songs, to learn her history, to feel the resonance of her own heritage in a place where it is not an anomaly. To pursue mere mechanics is to risk creating a weapon we have no wisdom to wield. We must seek understanding of the wielder first."

  Ruthiel’s wisdom held a deep, intuitive truth, but Artholan’s logic appealed to the soldier in Ronigren. He looked at the map spread on the table, a rushed thing sketched by Finn, showing the two divergent paths.

  "Ruthiel, your point is well made," Ronigren said, "Sabine is the heart of this. But High Tor lies on the very edge of the Scablands, deep in unknown, potentially hostile territory. Ironwood Deep is a mountain fortress. Defensible. It offers us a secure base." He stabbed a finger at the map. "We have a broken Keeper at Woodhall. Perhaps the dwarves can tell us how to mend it. We have a key that is mostly inert. Perhaps they can decipher its mechanism. These are concrete objectives, achievable goals. The journey to High Tor feels like a quest for a ghost, and I fear we may lose more than we gain on that road."

  The three of them looked to Sabine. She had listened, her expression unreadable, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. "Master Artholan, Ron- Sir Ronigren… you speak of me, of my amulet, as if we are a sword to be sharpened. A machine to be understood," she began, her gaze meeting theirs without flinching. "And maybe you are right. But I am not a machine, and this power… it isn’t just a tool for me. It’s… me. It’s my parents. It’s the reason they died."

  She looked at her own hands, large and strong, hands that had just ripped apart magical vines with a strength that terrified her. "Going to the dwarves feels like we would be asking someone else to fix my problems. To give me the answers. But Ruthiel is right. The problem, the answer… it’s in me. I need to understand why the amulet works, not just how. I need to know who I am, who my parents were, what they were fighting for."

  She turned her intense eyes to Ronigren, and it was not with the plea of a child, but with the resolve of someone accepting a terrible burden. "I know it’s more dangerous, Sir Ronigren. I know it’s a longer road. But I feel it. Here." She placed a hand over the amulet on her chest. "The song… it’s pulling me north. To my own kind. If I am to be this… this weapon for Argren, then I need to learn to be a Jotunai first. I need to go home, even if it’s a home I’ve never been to."

  Marta looked up. Her eyes found Sabine’s. "The girl speaks true," Marta said, "This," she tapped the dwarven-made key, "is a tool. It is strong, it is cunningly made. It opens a door. But a key by itself is useless. It is the hand that turns it, the will that guides it, the purpose that stands on the threshold, that gives it meaning."

  Her unwavering gaze settled on Ronigren. "Your path, Sir Knight, has been one of doubt and duty. You seek the safest road, the most certain victory. It is the way of a good leader, a good man. But sometimes… sometimes the safest road is not the true one. And sometimes, the most powerful weapon is not a mended golem, but a spirit that has found its own purpose." She offered Sabine a small, sad, but encouraging smile. "Let the child go home. Let her find her song. The rest… will follow."

  Ronigren sighed; a long, slow release. "So be it," he said. "North, then. To High Tor." Their path was set. And it led away from the comforting fire of a dwarven forge into the heart of the north, in search of the fading echoes of the Jotunai.

  MEDICINE & POISON

  An Epic Fantasy

  The gods did not create the world.

  They re-moulded it in their own image.

  But as the newly arrived deities empowered Kings and Prophets,

  the shadows of human nature affected heaven, too.

  That's how the wars began.

  ?? Volume I — Complete

  Oli is always getting lost in the forest. He's the only Sevener who can't see the paths, no matter how hard his parents try to teach him. But this time it's serious. He goes missing on the brink of a war between the devout Western Kingdom and the anti-theist Republic, with his homeland – Saltleaf Forest – caught in the middle.

  As he travels with an unexpected companion – a medicine man gifted with magic inseparable from his madness – he unearths the hidden histories of his tribe, his family and the life-cycle of a forgotten god. When he learns about his own place in it, he realises he must find the courage to enter a terrifying new world or face losing everyone he loves.

  ?? Volume II — Rain on the Godsroof

  Prince Tancred has been cast aside as heir to the Western throne in favour of his adopted brother. Still smarting from the injury, he nevertheless champions the cause of the Sevener refugees flooding the capital. But their charismatic leader, Adalina, is viewed with suspicion by many of his peers – and helping her could cost him what status he has left.

  Meanwhile, Advocate Demetos licks his wounds following a shocking defeat at the forest border. Armed with his fearsome new weapon – the firearm – he's on the verge of an alliance that will secure him a place of glory in Republican history, and infamy in the rest of the world.

  ??

  Gods & Monsters

  Divine politics meets ancient horror

  ??

  Rich Worldbuilding

  Kingdoms, republics & tribal nations

  ??

  Faith vs. Science

  Firearms challenge the divine order

  Gods, science and ancient monsters clash in a struggle that could earn its victors eternal glory – or tip the world into chaos and ruin.

  Free on Royal Road ? Two Volumes Available

  Newsletter ? Discord